


On Nights Like These

by dreamsofdramione



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDD, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Degradation, Dirty Talk, Dom Draco Malfoy, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, Plot Twists, Porn With Plot, Spanking, Sub Hermione Granger, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:14:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28258269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofdramione/pseuds/dreamsofdramione
Summary: On nights like these, he takes her apart, piece by piece, then builds her back up in the span of a few hours, polished and panting and better than before.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 31
Kudos: 315
Collections: DH, Dirty Festivus 2020, Finished Reading





	On Nights Like These

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KasmiAnn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KasmiAnn/gifts).



> This fic was written for [Dirty Festivus](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Dirty_Festivus_2020) hosted by [tridogmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tridogmom/pseuds/tridogmom)! Please consider reading the rest of the collection! 
> 
> !!! WARNING !!!  
>  ****I HAVE LEFT TAGS OFF THAT MAY CONTAIN TRIGGERING CONTENT!****
> 
> ****If you feel you might potentially be triggered by content surrounding the 'PLOT TWIST' tag, please scroll down to the bottom end note for more information.****

  
  


Hermione has never quite gotten used to the feeling of wearing another person’s face. Trailing a thin finger around the rim of her glass, she glances down the length of the polished bar top littered with remnants others have left behind. A swish of auburn fringe frames her view and she reaches up to bat it away—there’s a reason she has not entertained the style past her school years. A fringe is nothing short of a nuisance, even without the added uncertainty of her curls. 

Twisting her wrist, she looks at the Muggle watch again. Ten minutes past. 

It’s not like him to be late.

A long, slow sip drains the rest of her glass, and a lazy warmth settles over her limbs as she tries not to count the seconds ticking by. The potion won’t hold out much longer, fifteen minutes tops including the time it will take for them to make it up to whatever room he’s secured for the night. 

A man takes the seat next to her. His crooked teeth glint in the low light as his eyes sweep up her legs. Miles of tanned skin on full display between the high hem of her slip dress and the sharp point of her heel. 

“Can I buy you another round…” He arches a brow and Hermione fights the automatic roll of her eyes. 

“No, thank you.” Her voice isn’t her own, but the saccharine sweetness matches the pink of her plump lips as she curls them into a semblance of a smile. 

Hermione slides the strap of her beaded bag high on her shoulder, pushes the empty glass forward, and starts to spin her stool when long, lean fingers grip her elbow and the ghost of a breath slips over her shoulder. 

“Leaving so soon, darling?” 

Hermione rolls her elbow out of his grip, glancing once more at the man with the crooked teeth and oil-slicked hair. 

Her companion for the night doesn't look like himself, but that’s the point. His ruffled black locks are artfully arranged, much like they would be in their natural color, but his eyes are off—blue and deep—and she can’t look at him too long without picking out the pieces that don’t match the image of the man standing next to her. 

“Just waiting on you, of course.” Her eyelashes flutter and she hopes the show is as convincing as it feels. There are a few familiar faces scattered around the posh lounge—it wouldn’t do for her potion to wear off where she could be seen. 

Discretion is key.

* * *

This suite is nicer than the last, not that it matters. The extravagant chandelier hanging above the over-long table means less than nothing. All that matters is that there is a bed with clean sheets she won’t have to change after this. Her days are full of mundane responsibilities she refuses to let the elves do, despite their vehement protest, and nights like these, when she lets herself prioritize her own wants and needs, have no room for concerns about who will wake up to wash the sheets in the foggy morning light. 

The rules have always been simple. She ticks them off one by one as her polished black heels tap across the tile on the way to the bedroom. 

  * No overnights
  * No emotions



A few simple rules to guide these little misadventures, rules she’d enacted, signed and magically sealed, months ago when they’d first found themselves tangled up in ruined sheets, messy with sweat and spend and panting to breathe like teenagers who had just learned the pleasures of sex. 

That’s all this is, after all. Just sex. A mutually beneficial exchange. 

If someone had told her ages ago that sex was currency and sensuality could be wielded like a weapon, she might have laughed them off, but now she knows the value of desire. 

“How long do you have left?” 

Hermione knows why he asks the question. He’s made it abundantly clear. Draco Malfoy is here to fuck Hermione Granger, not some witch with auburn hair and pink lips. He won’t even kiss her until her skin settles back as it should and her hair frizzes into the mess it’s always been. 

“Not long.” Hermione can feel her features start to shift, rearranging as she sinks an inch and her feet slide down in the heels. The dress is longer on her frame now, tickling the middle of her bare thighs. She turns to look at Malfoy, her hand on the knob to the bedroom, and finds him standing in the same spot—now in his own body, too. The image of him deepens the ache pulling at something in her chest. “Are you coming?”

Not waiting for an answer, she pushes through the elaborate double doors and makes her way into the bedroom. Time is of the essence and there are not enough minutes to parse out for simple things like small talk or niceties. This isn’t about friendship. There is no deeper meaning. She has one goal in mind, and she focuses on that objective as she slips one thin strap off her shoulder and reaches for the next. 

A hand engulfs her own and warm lips land on the bare skin of her shoulder. 

“Did you wear this for me?” He trails kisses up the length of her neck, pausing just behind her ear to nip at the thin skin. It makes her knees quake. “Did your husband see you dress like a whore before you left the house?”

Her instinct is to reach around and let her palm find his cheek, let it paint the milky skin with a splash of red in the exact shape of  _ her _ hand. 

But she doesn’t. 

It’s all part of his game and she knows he gets off on the idea of fucking another man’s wife. 

She pushes down a scoff and slowly turns, brushing her bare shoulders against him until she’s staring up at the slope of his nose and sharp cut of his jaw. 

“My husband wasn’t home when I left.”

Something flashes behind grey eyes and she watches the tension weave along the line of his jaw.  _ Good. _

Skating swift fingers over the length of buttons on his chest, she plucks them open with a practiced ease that only comes with age and experience. They are no longer students sacrificing their childhood in the name of a war, nor are they young adults fumbling their way through awkward encounters and stilted dates. 

She knows what she wants and she’s not afraid to take it—not from him. Never from him.

“Enough talk,” she whispers, feathering light kisses across the dip of his chest as she pushes his shirt up and off the broad set of his shoulders. “We don’t have long.”

They don’t and they both know it. These meetings are timed with brutal efficiency, wedged into overflowing schedules and carved out of minutes neither has to spare. But Malfoy is an only child who has always had an affinity for his playthings and deep-seated belief in taking care of what he considers his— _ cherishing it— _ even if only under the cover of night in slices of stolen moments. So he savors the time she affords him.

There’s a need roaring to life inside of her, rushing through her veins and spiking along the edges of her awareness with each passing second. 

He knows it, too. 

“On the bed.” His command is clipped, an undercurrent of restraint, and she resolves to break it before the night is through. 

She doesn’t want him calm or collected, she wants him shattered to bits too small to piece back together, marked with reminders he has to spell away for days. She wants him to remember this.

Crawling onto the bed, she settles back against the pillows, still perfectly covered, save for the straps dangling off her shoulders. The silk is too extravagant for things she plans to do tonight, but he’d sent it over earlier in the day with a simple request:  _ Wear only this. _ And Hermione has always been adept at following directions.

Her nipples pucker as the silk slides across her bare breasts and she watches the storm rage in his quicksilver gaze. 

“Are you going to join me?” She knows it's taunt as she circles a single finger against the lush hotel sheets.

“Not just yet.” His reply is gruff, thick with the same need coursing through her. He looks like he’s contemplating a choice of some kind, weighing his options and opportunities in equal measure. He knows she’s more than willing to indulge in whatever plan he has for the evening—it is his turn to pick, after all. 

The buckle of his belt clicks open and the sound of the leather sliding out of the loops makes her bite her lip. They’ve talked about the belt before: the ways it can be used—restraint, punishment—but it is an arena they have yet to enter. 

Hermione’s breath hitches as the metal glints in the dim light. 

“Do you remember your orders from last time, Granger?”

She nods as he winds the leather around his clenched fist.

“And did you?” he asks.

A divide stretches before her: answer truthfully and take whatever punishment he has in mind, or lie with ease and let him believe it. But there is no more room for deceit. They're loaded with enough already, so she decides honesty is her only option. 

She gulps, shifting her hips against the sheets and spreading her palms wide against the plush linens. “I did.”

“How many times?” The belt unwinds with ease, hanging so low it brushes the floor. “Answer me.”

“Twice.” It’s more of a whisper than a word, but she knows he can hear it all the same.

“And what do you propose we do about that?”

Her heart thumps so hard against her ribs she thinks it’s trying to break free of its bony cage. 

She’s not afraid, per se. 

Excited? Yes. Aroused? Most assuredly. Apprehensive? Without a doubt. But afraid? Never. Not of him. Not after everything they’ve experienced together. 

“Whatever you want.” She pauses, sucks in a deep breath, and stays as still as she can manage when she adds, “Sir.”

“That’s right. I’ll do whatever I want.” It only takes two long strides for his knees to brush the edge of the bed before he sits with his feet flat on the floor and rolls up his sleeves with meticulous precision. She still hasn’t moved, staring at his back until he bites out his next command. “Across my lap.”

She complies without hesitation, scrambling to her knees and falling across his lap. 

A sharp nail drags the hem of her dress up over the curve of her ass, gathering it around her waist and leaving her wholly exposed. Slim fingers slide against her already slippery sex, rubbing the bare skin with a tender reverie that feels out of place. 

Malfoy bends down to whisper in her ear, his fingers still stroking along the seam of her dripping cunt.”Does your husband ever toss you across his lap like a common whore, Granger?” 

Her cheeks burn red. Her cunt clenches at the name. He knows her too well, but two can play that game. 

“Does your wife let you redden her ass, Malfoy?” She spits his name like a curse, like the foul word it had been so many years ago.

And then his hand is gone, leaving her pussy pulsing with a deep need she knows won’t be satisfied anytime soon.

_ Smack! _

Hermione gulps back her yelp, pressing her eyes shut and centering her mind. 

“I hope you know that is a fucking  _ privilege _ , Granger.” 

A laugh pushes out of her lungs and though she sucks in a deep breath, she can’t pull it back before he strikes her again.

_ Smack! _

“Lying across my thighs like the slag you are is an opportunity many witches will never have. Thank me,” he hisses, smoothing his palms over her tingling skin. 

“Th-thank you, Sir.”

Two swats are nothing, they’ve done far more with his hand, but she doesn’t let herself believe it’s over. Not yet. 

“Now that I’ve dealt with your insolence”—he trails a hand down between her thighs—“it’s time to move on to your punishment.”

Hermione knows not to speak unless spoken to, and Malfoy hasn’t asked her anything that requires an answer—yet. Her eyes are still sealed shut and she counts each measured breath as the sting from his swats fades into nothing more than a pleasant, pulsing warmth. The clang of his belt buckle snaps her composure in half, but she wills herself not to wiggle. 

It wouldn’t do to upset him—not now, not with the belt in his hand. 

She tries to tamp down the swell of want that overtakes her when he lays the leather across her thighs. It’s a gentle gesture, out of place with their current position, but she knows by now that he, too, can only keep up the facade for so long when warring with the deep want that overtakes them both. They each need this as much as the other. 

Malfoy clicks his tongue, dragging the smooth, polished leather across her hypersensitive thighs, letting the tip dip down and brush her sex. 

“Twice, you said?” 

Hermione hums her response, taking a steady breath—

_ Smack! _

“Speak up, whore. I know that swotty little mouth of yours is good for more than just sucking my cock. Use. It.”

“Y-yes, Sir.” She can barely get the words past her lips before it’s chased by a moan as his fingers glide along her cunt again. 

“And what have I told you about disobedience?” 

“That it must be-must be punished.”

Malfoy hums. She can hear the belt wind and unwind around his closed fist. “Surely you haven’t forgotten how to speak to me in the last few seconds, Granger.” 

_ Smack! _

“N-no Sir.”

“Good. Now let’s try this again.” The belt unwinds once more, and part of her thinks he’s more nervous than she is. This part of the exercise is something new—for both of them. “Tell me, what happens when you disobey a direct order?”

Hermione swallows around a lump in her throat. “I must be punished…  _ Sir.” _

“That’s right.” Fingertips skim the swell of her ass. “Now ask nicely, slag.”

The names he calls her vary every time, some tamer than others. Only one is barred from these stolen moments. She is not filth and she will not let him treat her like such, but anything less than that thrills her in a way she should be ashamed of. But she’s not. Because he enjoys it, too. 

“Please, Sir.” A puff of air pushes past her lips and she can feel his cock stiffening under her side. Spread across his thighs like this, draped over the thick, tense muscles, she can feel  _ everything.  _ "May I please have the belt?"

“Much better.” His voice is thicker now, too, tinged with need she knows so well. “How many do you think you deserve?”

It’s a tactical question, one she knows has a right answer if she can just puzzle it out. Too few will earn more and too many will leave her a quivering mess, but the leather is new and she is not certain how many she can stand. 

“Ten?” The word is more of a question but he doesn’t fault her for it. He’s unsure, too. “Sir,” she adds as an afterthought, relishing in the way his hand cups her ass and squeezes. 

“Five for each instance?” He tsks and she holds her breath, waiting for his judgment on her self-imposed punishment. “Tell me…” He leans down and turns her chin toward him, her cheek pressed flat against the sheets as she peers up to see nothing short of fire in her eyes. “What did you do to earn this punishment, hm? I want you to tell me exactly what happened.”

A blush burns high on her cheeks. “I got off, Sir—without you.”

“Put those lips to good use and tell me  _ how and when.” _

Hermione has never been very good at giving voice to her more salacious thoughts, but he’s never judged her—regardless of the shades of grey in her deepest desires. 

“Monday, Sir. My husband was out of town on assignment”—she can hear him suck in a breath as his fingers squeeze the swell of her thigh—“I-I needed it, Sir. Please forgive me.” 

“It’s not quite that easy. Go on. I believe you said twice?”

“Y-yes Sir.” Hermione knows she directly disobeyed orders, but she’s never been adept at controlling her impulses. “It was earlier today. In-in my office. I got your note and I couldn’t wait.”

_ Smack! _

“And you feel ten is adequate punishment for your egregious indiscretions?”

She gulps. Is it enough? She isn’t sure. “With the belt please, Sir.”

“That didn’t answer my question, whore.” The leather is back again, cool against her warming thighs. Hermione can feel her cunt pulse at the promise of what’s to come. “I said, do you feel ten is adequate?”

Yes? No? She’s not sure, too dizzy with want to piece together anything close to coherent. “Whatever you think is best, Sir.”

“That’s right, slag.  _ I  _ am the one who administers your punishment.  _ I _ am the one who controls your pleasure.” He sinks two slim fingers into her sex with no preamble and she can’t hold back a whine. “When you are here”—he twists his fingers—“with  _ me” _ —he crooks his lean fingers until they brush against that spot only he can reach with ease—“you are  _ not  _ in charge.”

“Yes, Sir.” 

“You will treat me with the respect I deserve.” He pumps two brutal fingers into her with abandon, drawing her right to the edge before he pulls them out. “With the respect I’ve  _ earned.”  _

No answer is necessary as she feels his belt slide against her skin. Hermione closes her eyes, drawing in deep, steadying breaths. 

The anticipation is nothing short of torture—a sweet, heady form of it, but torture nonetheless. 

She doesn’t know how many minutes pass. His belt clinks a few times, the leather dancing across various parts of her skin, smoother than the caress of any hand. 

She counts her heartbeats. 

One. Two. Ten. Fifty. 

But nothing comes. 

Laying there, draped across his thighs, she wonders if he’s second-guessing the belt. It’s the only new component, the only new element to their clandestine trysts. Maybe he’s— 

_ Crack! _

The belt whips across her skin like a hot blade slicing through butter. Stars burst behind her eyelids when she lets out a deep, heaving sob. 

“Count.”

His command is clear, unquestionable, but she cannot speak, not yet.

_ Crack! _

“I said count, whore, and thank me for each lash like the gift it is or I’ll start over.” 

Summoning her strength she whispers, “One.”

He tsks. “Now you know that doesn’t count. I didn’t hear you thank me.” 

_ Crack! _

“One.” Half-broken, she pushes the words from her lips. “Thank you, Sir.”

“Much better.” His hands knead the flesh of her ass until the sharp sting ebbs. 

_ Crack! _

“Two. Thank you, sir.”

_ Crack! Crack! Crack! _

“Three. Four. Five. Thank you, sir.” 

Deft fingers pinch the line the belt traced just seconds before; she hisses in response. “I believe I said to thank me for each one but I’ll let that slide—just this once.”

His hand caresses the stinging, sure to bruise flesh, and she bites back a moan at the mix of sensations. Dancing back and forth across the line between pleasure and pain is a skill they’ve honed over the course of their explorations. Too much of one leaves no room for the other, but too little does just the same. There’s a delicate balance between power and powerless, desire and contempt. And he plays her like he’s read her rule book cover to cover.

The rest of the swats pass in a haze of  _ cracks _ and  _ thank yous, _ and she reaches ten before she even lets herself take a real, true, deep breath. 

The facade cracks.

His belt falls to the floor with a clang. 

His hands are on her in an instant, curved around the swell of her hips and tilting her upright to crash their lips together. She fumbles with his trouser buttons while he slides the silk up and over her shoulders, guiding her knees to either side of his hips after he sheds his trunks too. Taking adequate time, he worships the reddened skin of her ass with each gentle touch. 

_ “So good.” _ His lips trail down her throat, sucking sweet promises into her skin, while his hands continue to rub the reddened flesh. The bite of pain is gone, morphed into a steady thrum of pleasure. “So fucking good. My good girl. You did so well.”

Lips close around the hardened peak of her nipple, teeth scrape the sensitive flesh. She’s still lost in a fog when he drags them down against the pillows, his back pressed to the plush sheets and her chest laid flat against his. He knows she’s too sore for even the softest fabric on her backside right now. 

The string of praise doesn’t cease. Assurances of how  _ good _ she is, of how  _ well _ she did make her blood boil.

And this is why Hermione Granger is fucking Draco Malfoy in a hotel on a Thursday night when her son is being watched by a sitter, likely tucked safely into his bed this very moment. 

This is what he gives her that no one else ever has. 

He’s hard and heavy against her thigh, and she lifts her hips just enough to slide her drenched lips along his length. A guttural groan rumbles against her chest. 

She does it again. And again. And again. 

“Fuck, Granger.” But it’s not a curse, not a dirty word. It’s an exaltation. A confirmation that he’s just as affected by all of this as she is. 

This heady need they’ve found in one another eclipses any sense of if this is wrong or right. There is no black and white boundary separating what she should do and what she shouldn’t. They play in the grey in between, in these scenes, without prying eyes or judgment. 

On nights like these, he takes her apart, piece by piece, then builds her back up in the span of a few hours, polished and panting and better than before. 

He lifts her hip with a sure grip and cants them just a little, just enough to slide into her with a grunt. The familiar stretch is a welcome reprieve from the ache of emptiness she’s suffered from all evening. Their time is surely dwindling, not enough left for much more than a quick, dirty fuck, but she thinks that might be just what they both need right now. 

Spreading her palms wide against the planes of his chest, Hermione leans up and lifts her hips, little by little, then slides down, repeating the motions over and over and over again. 

She’s still riding the high of his praise, reveling in the pull of the tender skin on her backside, decorated in lines she knows she’ll trace in the mirror for days to come. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t even sting any longer, but there’s a distinct warmth imbued in the abused skin, a heat radiating outward as she clenches her core around his impossibly hard cock. 

Malfoy is gifted between the sheets, no sense in denying something she’s tested to be true, but it’s more than just a natural skill that guides his hands to the curve of her hips and pulls a hand up to tweak one of her nipples. 

He does these things, and times them just right because he knows how to dissect every cue she’s ever given him—in or out of any swanky hotel suite. 

Familiarity aids his earnest explorations, and though some of what they did tonight is new, much of it is not. 

Her name is a plea that drips from his parted lips in waves. 

His name is a mercy. 

She dusts it against his swollen lips, whispers it like a secret they’ll both share. “ _ Draco, I—” _

Her nerves tingle with impending release. She watches him study her lines, running fingers along her pages and skimming for a passage he knows all too well. A few quick swipes of his thumb across her aching clit send her over the edge. She can’t hold back any longer. 

His firm grip on the swollen skin of her rear sends a slice of pain shooting straight to her core when she cries out his given name. 

The sloppy syllables of  _ her _ name are mumbled against sweaty skin and licked into her neck as they break in time with the twitch of his hips. 

He’s almost there, she knows, so Hermione curves her nails just so—just enough—and sinks them into the map of marks splashed across his chest. 

She wonders if he’ll magically heal these, too, and eliminate the evidence that tonight ever happened. 

Or maybe he’ll leave them there, like a badge for some twisted sense of courage. 

He hisses and snaps his hips once, twice more, before he seizes beneath her, a vice-like grip sinking fingerprint shaped bruises into her skin. 

He cleans them both up with clinical attention to detail, even righting patches of curls that never obey her wand the way they do his.

“Better.” His smirk is so sharp she thinks it could cut glass. 

“Thank you.”

They never talk much after, which is fine because she doesn’t know what else to say. Thank you again would be ridiculous, and anything more is too intimate for these fragile moments. 

They’re always too rushed for much conversation anyway. Draco’s sense of fashionably late doesn’t sit well with the schedule Hermione must keep for the dalliances to continue. 

Regular. Scheduled. Blocked off bits of time to indulge in a way she never could otherwise.

She has a system. And it works. 

“Plan to go home in just that, Granger?” His bored drawl crawls across her skin, more tangible than the silk wrapped around her bare body. 

“In your dreams, Malfoy.” She turns around, wand in hand, and tosses her cloak over her shoulders as she steps into the heels she’s lowering down to flats. “I actually plan to Transfigure my cloak and take a shower the second I step through the Floo.” Looking back over her shoulder, she notes the hint of hesitation in his movements, the way he takes his time wrapping the belt through each loop with reverence. “Wouldn’t do to show up at home reeking of sex.”

He sneers at her and she does her best to twist his own signature smirk across her still magically painted lips. Still pink, but now in the shape that matches her face. 

Her flats are soundless as she strides to the door in three easy steps, but his two cover the same distance in almost the same time. With his chest pressed along the entire length of her back, she can feel the depth of his inhale. 

It makes her feel dirty, like he’s seeking out his own scent, like he’s marked in her more ways than one tonight. 

Warm puffs of air skitter along her spine and his forehead presses into the back of her head. “Same time next week?”

The pressure of his hips against her rear, still tender and throbbing as a delicious reminder, sends another wave of want crashing over her.

Hermione sucks in a deep, calming breath before she dips her chin ever so slightly. “Same place?”

“No. I’ll owl you the address.”

And just like that, he steps back. 

Hermione pulls the door open, ignoring the way the silk glides across the blooming bruises and leaves without a second glance.

* * *

“Please accept my sincerest apologies. Time just got away from me tonight. I—”

“It’s fine, really. He was great, went to bed without fuss and has slept soundly ever since. Rest assured, Aunt Ginny made sure he had a great night.” Ginny levels Hermione with a knowing look. “But you’ve got a little something—”

Hermione bats Ginny’s hand away from her neck and tugs up the collar of her cloak, biting back a smile. She glances around the entryway, eyeing the Floo she’d just come through before trailing her gaze down the hallway. “Have you seen—”

“No need to worry. He’s not home yet.” There’s a twinkle in Ginny’s eye that has never spelled anything but trouble. “I can always ask Harry if he’s seen—”

“Absolutely not.” Hermione huffs out a laugh. “I appreciate you watching him tonight and all but this is not an open invitation to involve anyone else in my interpersonal relationships. You only know out of necessity and because you came armed with a mission and three bottles of elf-made wine a few months back. If it weren’t for—” 

“Yeah. Yeah.” Ginny waves her hand dismissively as she makes her way to the Floo. “You were wound too tight and I knew something was going on. It’s not my fault you can’t handle your liquor.”

“It’s called coercion, Ginny, and to some people, it’s considered a crime.” Arching a challenging brow, Hermione can only hold her expression steady for a few seconds before she gives in to the laugh bubbling up her chest. “You can go now, you know. I’m sure Harry is eagerly awaiting your return.”

“Oh, he’s always eager.” The salacious smirk tilting Ginny’s lips makes Hermione roll her eyes. 

* * *

The house is larger than she would have preferred, but compromise is key to a happy marriage and she knows her husband has a particular affinity for the best of everything—herself included, as he so often reminds her. She blushes at the thought, recounting tonight’s events one last time before pushing the thoughts from the forefront of her mind. She doesn’t want to forget, but her home is a boundary they are not allowed to cross. She places thoughts of tonight high on a shelf and files them away for further examination another day as she makes her way down the hall toward her bedroom. 

The bathwater borders on too hot as she sinks into the ornate tub, letting the heat burn the sweat off her skin. 

* * *

Hermione wakes sometime later, floating in lukewarm water with gentle hands skirting along the paths of her curves. She can feel a solid chest behind her and she turns to nuzzle into his throat, taking a deep breath and letting the scents still clinging to his skin cloud her mind. 

“Good evening, Mrs. Malfoy.” Draco presses a kiss to her forehead before he slides a finger under her chin and tilts it up. His eyes search hers for the reassurance she’s ready and more than willing to give. 

“Evening, Mr Malfoy.” She can’t help but smile when she says it, letting her lashes flutter open in her lazy, post-nap haze. 

When she threads her fingers through his hair and presses her lips to his, he lets out a ghost a breath. 

Unlike earlier, his touch is featherlight. 

He’s tender with her after these nights, vulnerable and open and begging to be loved. And she’s never been able to say no to a single request. 

They indulge one another with twisted tongues and long, languid movements as she slides over his lap and slots their hips together. 

They make love in the tub—slow and sensual—before they fall into bed. 

He whispers healing spells over each mark he’s left and seals them with his lips. When she tries to do the same, he stops her, pressing her hand flat against the new marks on his chest.

Draco’s eyes are half-lidded when he meets her gaze. “I want to remember.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

>  ****Untagged Triggers****  
>  _\- Implied Infidelity  
>  \- Role-play  
> _  
> One more quick content note:  
> \- I tagged this fic as bad BDSM etiquette for lack of safe word talk, which I rationalize as a married couple would have happened off the page long before this fic takes place. I also know the aftercare is delayed until the final scene so that doesn't quite line up with ideal etiquette. This is a work of fiction so I appreciate you all suspending your disbelief for a little while!
> 
> My prompts were infidelity and secret/hidden sex. I was worried this didn't QUITE hit either of them (lol plot twist!) but I hope you enjoyed this [KasmiAnn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KasmiAnn/pseuds/KasmiAnn)!
> 
> Thanks are in order for my last minute team because I am impossible and only seem to write under tight deadlines. 😅 Thank you [inadaze22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inadaze22/pseuds/inadaze22), [raven_maiden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raven_maiden/pseuds/raven_maiden), and the dungeon group for reading over various bits/drafts of this little thing as it took shape. 
> 
> [msmerlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmerlin/pseuds/msmerlin) deserves a gold star for alphaing this and brainstorming with me and [PacificRimbuad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pacificrimbaud/pseuds/pacificrimbaud) is simply the best for whipping my jumble of words into readable shape. 
> 
> Come find me on tumblr [@dreamsofdramione](https://dreamsofdramione.tumblr.com)!
> 
> THANK YOU ALL for reading! Comments & kudos **always appreciated!**


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